All That Glitters
by KissTheBoy7
Summary: Well, that just about makes up his mind. If someone is going to wreck this kid anyways, it really ought to be Roger, who at least has some sort of sympathy. Roger meets Mark at a bar and things progress as they always do when it comes to bars and boys. Mark/Roger. Marker. Oneshot. Happy birthday Addy!


**A/N: Happy happy birthday to my lovely Addy! Finally! :D We had such an incredible year together, and I hope by your next birthday I'll be able to give you a REAL present instead of a bunch of words… Dirty words at that. Teehee. But for now, this'll have to do. Enjoy the smut and happy birthday hon, I love you!**

Disclaimer: _By now I think we should probably look into getting the rights to RENT, but I mean, whatever. Don't own._

**All That Glitters**

Roger growls as he slams an empty shot glass onto the bar, rolling his shoulders and spinning around on his stool to observe the club. This is, he thinks and knocks discreetly on the bar, probably the first time since he started up the band that he's been able to sit around and get a buzz without being interrupted every five seconds by some starry-eyed groupie with her skirt pulled up, trying to sit in his lap. Now he's flying high from the adrenaline of working the crowd- the club was teeming tonight, actually, more so than usual- and maybe just a little leftover powder that he rubs from under his nose without a second thought. He grins dangerously.

He certainly wasn't a mommies boy anymore.

The guitarist flexes his fingers, searching for a worthy victim amongst the loud, energetic mass of bodies on the dance floor. Too sleazy, too obnoxious, too old- Roger could find a flaw in anyone, and it was notoriously difficult for any groupie of his to find their way into his bed. Perhaps it was the vestiges of his conscience acting up, but he didn't want to get too involved with anyone. He was a slave to the drug now, and to his music, and love wasn't at all what he was looking for.

He isn't quite sure what attracts him to the blonde boy in the corner. Roger hardly bothers looking at the timid people lingering on the edges, and he almost _never_ gives into the fanboys- he's straight after all, or that's what he assures himself- but it doesn't really matter as long as there's sex involved. And with him, there always is.

The kid looks barely seventeen and Roger smirks to himself as he imagines corrupting this boy in ways he's probably never even imagined, never dared to. He's sort of short, shorter than Roger at least, and pale, rake-thin. He isn't particularly unique in a pair of skinny jeans that show off his perfect ass or that form-fitting black t-shirt that he looks like he's not used to wearing, or those fishnet things over his arms. He's just standing there in a corner by himself, eyes darting about nervously, but Roger strongly suspects he knows why.

How, and why, had a kid this young even gotten in here? He couldn't possibly have an ID. This wasn't a bar to be messing around in. A quick glance at the majority of the dancers was enough to tell that they were high out of their minds, wasted- the sounds of violent sex in the bathrooms could be heard all the way at the bar. This kid, he shouldn't be hanging around these kinds of people. He was going to get himself hurt.

Well, that just about makes up his mind. If someone is going to wreck this kid anyways, it really ought to be Roger, who at least has some sort of sympathy.

A minute later Roger is prowling towards him, a feral glint in his eye as he licks the remnants of his shot from his lips. He's hot and horny and he hasn't fucked anyone in over twenty-four hours, most likely the longest period of abstinence he's had in weeks- since Roger came to the city just over a year ago, lugging his guitar along with him, everything has been an endless stream of stranger sex and mosh pits, deafening music and the roar of the crowd, a baggie of pleasure powder at hand at all times. Besides, the blonde kid is making his mouth water, all vulnerable like fresh, brand-new meat on the market, and when Roger wants something he takes it and everybody's happy.

As he approaches, the boy- staring down at the floor and chewing his thumbnail nervously- comes into sharper focus. His painted nails are bitten nearly to the quick, his sneakers scuffed; his lips are shimmering with either spit or lip gloss in the strobe lights, more enticing than Roger wants to admit. Everything about the kid screams _VIRGIN! _And Roger doesn't mind one bit. He's young, fuckable, obviously inexperienced…

The perfect prey.

He doesn't see Roger coming.

The guitarist slinks up and leans on the wall beside him, too close to be casual, and gives him the classic half-lidded grin that can only communicate one thing. He knows he looks good, and he milks it for all it's worth- hell, why would he ever have picked up a stick of eyeliner in the first place if he hadn't known it would result in wild backstage sex with a different chick every night, the occasional guy thrown in just to keep it interesting? The same went for hair gel, for nail polish, for his piercings, his tattoos, for the low, hoarse stage voice he's using to breathe into the kid's ear now.

"Hey." The blonde's head snaps up, revealing a pair of wide, brilliant baby blues surrounded by pink-tinted glitter and framed by eyelashes so pale they're almost white. _Excellent choice._ Roger doesn't pause to pat himself on the back, though, just smirks and continues. "Name's Roger. What's yours?"

"Oh- M-Mark," the kid stammers, smiling nervously as his eyes magnet back to the ground. He's intimidated, but Roger is used to this sort of reaction and he's also used to disregarding every personal boundary a person like Mark might have, trailing his calloused fingers lightly down his side. The next words are slightly breathier, and he knows he's succeeded. "M-Mark-" he repeats, leaning subconsciously into the guitarists' touch. "Mark…"

The last part is almost a moan, and that's how Roger knows that it won't be difficult to get this kid against a wall with his pants around his knees.

The shy ones are always better in the sack.

"Where're ya from?" It's small talk, it really is, but Roger knows he has to take his time reeling him in if he doesn't want him running for the hills. Besides, he's curious as to how this kid even managed to make it past the bouncers. He doesn't look like the city breed; there's a distinct air of suburbia surrounding his every movement, like he's never set foot in a city before. Boy, did he pick the wrong one to start with.

Mark seems to have trouble remembering to breathe as Roger's hand slides lower, resting on his waist, thumb stroking the pale strip of skin exposed between the hem of his t-shirt and the waistband of his dark jeans. Nevertheless, he manages to spit out, "S-Scarsdale…" before composing himself enough to speak in full sentences. He lifts those dazzling eyes to Roger's tentatively. (Why was it, again, that people said _his_ eyes were pretty…? They'd obviously never seen these.)

"I'm, um, I'm not from around here… Never been here before, actually…" He coughs, almost sheepish as he glances away- apparently staring at Roger for too long was comparable to staring at the sun, because he's blinking like he's been blinded. "I dropped out- my parents don't know yet… I'm hoping to keep it that way. I don't want to go back home."

"Mmmm…" Roger is rapidly losing interest, too busy undressing the kid- Mark, he reminds himself, he has a name and usually that doesn't really matter to him but inexplicably this time it does- to care about whatever other issues he's having. He wonders, for example, what the skin right there at the junction of his neck and his shoulder would taste like if he just leant forward and…

"I like your band," Mark blurts, that adorable smile gracing his features again. He's squinting and wrinkling his nose and Roger is convinced that he's never wanted to kiss somebody so badly in his entire life. An attractive pink flush complements his eye makeup, spreading down his neck. "I- I don't really know- know music but it was, I thought it was good…"

It's always so funny how everyone, even kids like this, seems to melt in his presence. Putty in his hands. He hadn't thought that this was one of his groupies, and maybe he isn't- but it was obvious that he wouldn't mind being converted. His skinny jeans aren't so skinny anymore, not between his legs anyways.

Roger sits up and takes notice of this, smirking wider as he closes the last of the distance between his body and this kid who doesn't look like he's old enough for college at all. Mark is being pressed into the wall, now- Roger has himself braced against said wall with the hand that isn't moving between their hips to toy with the zipper on Mark's jeans. Those blue, blue eyes widen in a certain degree of shock and he gasps lightly as Roger's lips stop just a centimeter from his.

"Thanks," he grins, lips just barely brushing. The blonde is trembling beneath his every touch, thrumming with adrenaline the way Roger is thrumming with his high and as he shifts just slightly closer, pressing their bodies more tightly together, he can feel that he's painfully hard.

There's only one step left in the first part in his regular game of cat and mouse, and it's his favorite. Positively sinfully, he purrs, "How'd you like to come backstage?"

There's a whimper as he pulls away. Roger grins internally- this boy is already his and it's been about two minutes. He decides, right then, that he's going to make Mark scream so the whole club can hear. It's the least he can do for a brand new fan, and besides, that tight little ass is just _begging_ to be fucked raw.

"Th-that sounds… really great…" Mark replies dazedly, evidently reeling from Roger's seduction. He allows the singer to drag him by his wrist through the crowd, and as Roger guides him he likes to think that all the poor kid can think about is his hands on him, their bodies molding together, his lips just touching his. By the time they finally make their way back into some dark room, however, he's lost his patience.

He slams Mark against the wall without warning, knocking the wind out of him. He doesn't give him sufficient time to recover, either, crushing their mouths together. Roger is tired of waiting. _Heroin_, actually, is tired of waiting because if drugs have taught him anything he's a hedonist at heart. And maybe it's pedophilia, and maybe if he had even a shred of integrity left he wouldn't want him so bad, lust making his pupils dilate and his cock press to his zipper, but Roger can't give a fuck right now. Maybe later.

Keyword _maybe._

Mark doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands, his tongue, but that's alright. Roger just hopes that he doesn't break him, but it's brief. His tongue is already delving between those shiny lips, and yeah, it's lip gloss and it's cherry and how did Mark know that was his favorite flavor? His thoughts are already fuzzing over, his hands traveling fearlessly up under the smaller boy's shirt to brush the pads of his thumbs over those perky nipples. Mark, thankfully, has yet to show any signs of chickening out and Roger wants to kiss him harder just for that, because his need is so strong that he thinks he might die if he isn't inside of him sometime in the next five minutes.

"Roger…" comes out in a breathless moan. Mark doesn't have any apparent qualms about doing this kind of thing with another guy, but he doesn't know what he's doing, either. _Virgin._ Fine, then, Roger thinks to himself, he'll just have to teach him.

That's not necessarily a bad thing, anyways…

"Yes, Mark?" he simpers, pulling away with that same infuriating smile on his face. It's so easy to conceal it, sometimes, the way he wants people and Mark is testing the limits. He's flushed and panting and God, so perfect, eying Roger in a way that makes the guitarist think that he's probably just as desperate for some action.

_Fuck, yes._

He lightly brushes his hand over the bulge in the kid's pants and Mark hangs onto his shoulders for dear life as he whimpers like a kicked puppy. Any other response wiped from his mind, he whines, "_Please!"_

Roger could definitely get used to this. Even with the groupies swarming him every night, he's never felt so lavished with attention. Maybe it's just that he's a little higher than usual or maybe it's just this _kid_ that he can already tell he wants to keep, like a pet. His cock is twitching in response to Mark's needy tone, the control he had over him, the pleasure in his tortured expression. Fuck. Okay, so maybe he should give into the fanboys more often than he does if they all act like this, but he can't imagine that any other person in the world could be quite this delectably innocent, moaning and writhing under his lightest touch like it's the best thing he'll ever experience in his entire life.

Spreading the kid's legs, he steps between them and grinds up against his thigh slowly, groaning with abandon as sparks of pleasure course straight down his length and to the sensitive tip of his cock. His own breathing is beginning to accelerate, but with Mark he's hardly concerned about losing control.

_Don't hurt him_, his mind whispers, but it's lost in moments in a jumble of hormones as Mark stiffens beneath him, in fear or anticipation he doesn't know. He would ask, but suddenly there are hands in his bleached blonde hair, fisting tightly and tugging him down for a fiercer kiss and _yes_, yes yes yes-

"Pants. Off," he pants, breaking away for just long enough to give the command before he's slamming him back against the wall, grabbing a thigh and hitching it around his waist in order to feel him more fully against him. The kid might be small, but his dick isn't, and it just makes him want him more, biting at his lower lip until it's bruised and swollen and Mark arches off the wall in a startled moan.

"I- Okay-!" Squeaking, he scrambles to lower his leg again and pop the button on the obscenely tight jeans, shimmying out of them awkwardly without ever breaking contact. Pleased, both with his obedience and the sight that greets him, Roger spins him around and smacks his ass, eliciting a choked noise.

"Boxers, too," he murmurs in his ear, but he's already pressing up against his back, feeling the heat of arousal through the denim of his jeans as Mark presses back against him, shuddering. The kid's hands go to the waistband of his boxers anyways, attempting to wriggle out of them, breathing like he's run a marathon.

"Um- um- shouldn't you-?" he stammers, twisting around to look at him uncertainly. Roger takes this as an invitation to kiss him again, hands pushing his shirt up and bunching it impatiently under his arms. Mark whines, discarding his boxers carelessly and raising his arms over his head to help Roger with the shirt- he's going to have a hell of a time finding all of his clothes when this is over, but Roger doesn't even want to think about the walk of shame before he's even earned it.

Just to placate him, though, and maybe because he wants to feel that hot skin against his, he sheds his own shirt in one fluid movement that speaks volumes about his experience and wraps his arms around Mark's torso. His lips find the younger boy's ear, voice soft and husky and all of those things that lure the girls into his pants every night without fail. "Just wait." He removes one of his arms and reaches into his pocket, fumbling for the half-used tube of lube he always carries just in case, relieved when it slips into his palm.

"Please?" Mark tries again. It's a dangerous thing, the power that word and that tone have to compel Roger to move faster, draw closer, and he should be alarmed that Mark is already learning how to use it to his advantage. Right now, though, he's busy stepping out of his pants like they were never there, painted to his legs, his cock throbbing as it's freed, leaking against his thigh.

What's the point of boxers when you always end up with them around your ankles anyways? Saves money, saves time. Roger is nothing if not practical.

Just like that the foreplay is over and the sex begins. There's no fine line to step over, just a great leap, the deafening snap of a tube being uncapped and a slickness that spreads over his fingers, cold and wet as he trails them down Mark's spine. He whimpers and that's what makes it all worth it, what makes this feel exactly right. Roger smiles to himself, head abuzz and veins tingling, as he slips the first finger up to his entrance.

"You ever done this before?" he asks mildly. It's all words now, and he knows that in the morning he'll be lucky to remember half of them. A fingertip nudges inside and heat clenches, pulses around it, Mark struggling to catch his breath long enough to answer. Every lean muscle in his back is stretched taut, thighs tensed as his legs spread subconsciously further apart to accommodate him. But even if he knows that it doesn't matter, he figures that Mark deserves a memory. He's not fucked up- he's not the type, and in an abstract way Roger hopes that he stays that way.

Someone so pure and sweet, so very innocent, being fucked up against the wall backstage at an underground club in the East Village by some pretty boy frontman halfway down from his most recent hit seems like a travesty but Roger is just too fucked up to care, so he'll have to do something nice for him later instead.

But to his surprise, Mark laughs, strained as he nods. "Yeah," he manages, sounding deliriously proud of himself. "Yeah, actually."

Roger raises an eyebrow in disbelief, and just to be an ass he slams that first finger upward, as if to prove his point. Mark chokes off whatever else he might have said, clenching around him. "You sure?" There was no shame in saying no, but he persisted.

"Yeah…" Swallowing hard, Mark fights for his voice, and it sounds like quite a battle. "Yeah- my- my college roommate- we were drunk-" By the end of his attempt he's panting, pushing back on the invading digit and Roger is surprised but he's certainly not complaining, busy trying to remember what he's doing.

He's just so goddamn _tight_ and Roger can't even remember why he'd been so concerned about his sexuality when he could have been fucking someone like this kid, because for _this_- this clenching heat, this tempting warmth wrapped around his fingers and pulling him in, those quiet little moans of desperate longing- he'd be queer all day every day. Seriously, who even cared who he got it from as long as he got sex as fantastic as this?

He mulls Mark's response over for a long moment as he prods up inside of him, searching casually for the spot that he knows will make him see stars and finally finding it. "Mmm… Let's see if I can't top him then." He smirks even though Mark can't see him, tapping on the nerve.

The reaction is instantaneous. Mark seizes with the most beautiful mewl, face screwing up like he wants to cry but Roger knows better. He takes his opportunity to push another finger up beside the first, his free hand stroking soothingly down the trembling boy's hip. Sweat is beginning to build on his brow, glistening, the glitter around his eyes flashing even in the darkness. It's mesmerizing- Roger wants to stare at him, just take the whole day to memorize every dip and curve and crevice of this boy's body and he's not sure if it's the drugs or his hormones or, again, just the kid himself.

_Beautiful_, his mind supplies, but he shakes the thought out as soon as it's begun to sprout. There's no room in sex for pretty words, romantic concepts. Sex is quick and rough and dirty, sweaty and salty and hot and sticky and a whole host of other adjectives. It's awkward but it's worth it, for the burning pleasure and the closeness that Roger imagines that not only he's craving, the closeness you can't find anywhere else and in short sex is anything but rose petals and scented candles, and he considers it part of his job description as a self-proclaimed rock god to disillusion kids like Mark to that fact.

But with Mark, somehow, he doesn't want to. He thinks it to himself as he presses his fingers up into his innocent little hole, spreading them apart, holding him together and holding him up as he loses it and groaning when he decides that nothing is worth thinking about right now.

"_Oh, God,_" Mark is whimpering, thighs shaking with the force of his newfound depravation. He claims that he's done this before but Roger imagines that he can't have, not if he's like this, not if he's clinging to Roger like he's everything and yelping like the world is ending and it's only the two fingers. "_Roger._ Roger! _Fuck-"_

"Shh," Roger absentmindedly hushes him, but it's not like he means it. He goes as slowly as he can, for Mark's sake which is a foreign idea and one that makes him unbearably impatient. Maybe it's pity for this poor kid, lost in the city and reeking of virginity that Roger is all too glad to steal from him.

The third finger is a stretch, the younger boy gasping for breath, shuddering around them, falling silent as if waiting for Roger to reassure him. He doesn't sugarcoat it. Why lie? It's going to hurt a hell of a lot more than this, and it's better for Mark to back out now than it would be if he decided halfway through, when it was too late and Roger was lost to his body's needs and he wasn't prepared to stop anyways. Instead, he thrusts his fingers upwards into his prostate and shows him what the reward can be if he just stays and bears it.

Mark chokes on his own moan, throwing his head back onto Roger's shoulder. "PLEASE!" And that's the final straw.

"Alright, alright," he mutters, and if Mark had known him better he might have caught the subtle edge of desperation lacing his tone. Roger is glad that he doesn't. His fingers slip out and nimbly dance up his spine, his sides, around to his ribs as he presses up to his back. There's no time for protection, never has been. His whole world is comprised of his racing pulse, the thrum of liquid life in his veins, the energy of the stage swirling in him again and rising to the surface as he spins him around and wraps his legs around his waist, guiding his slick cock up to the kid's hot entrance. Mark stiffens, but to his credit he doesn't say a word to stop him, just slides his fingers into Roger's hair like he's looking for something to hang onto.

Maybe if he'd been sober Roger would have given enough of a shit to ask if he was ready. As it was, he was fighting to hold back an incredible orgasm already- he didn't have time to toy around, as much as he might want to, and he certainly doesn't have time for a virgin's cold feet.

His mind beams straight back to _beautiful_ as his head breaks through the initial tension, the tight ring of muscle resisting him, because it's the only way to describe what he's feeling. His high will be wearing thin soon, time for another needle, but at the very least he'll have this to recall. Live for the moment, that's all he can do, cock sliding further up inside of him and Mark's face pressing to his neck, breath coming in quick pants that make him want to _rock his world._

He grips his hips tightly, keeping him pinned between the wall and his own body, and thrusts forward without bothering with subtlety. His own ragged breathing in his ears is making him hot, making everything hot, blurring together in a mess of dark colors and sounds and bright flashes of pleasure pricking down the length of his cock, so hard that he's surprised he has any blood left to fuel the hear ramming against his ribcage. Mark whimpers, so quietly that it's hard for Roger to hear, but before he can even strain his ears a louder moan, whether of pain or pleasure he can't tell, a strangled moan rips from his chest and his teeth sink into Roger's neck.

"_Shit." _He doesn't mean to say anything out loud but it's not too concerning. The hottest, tightest thing in the world and he's buried inside of it, feeling it- _him_- quiver around his cock like the fluttering of a hummingbird's heart, and nothing could possibly ruin this. Fuck control, fuck anyone who wanted to call him a faggot- Mark bites at his neck, shaking and groaning and pulling at his hair and he can't say _no._

There's no real rhythm to it, at least not one that Roger cares to identify. It's just an endless list of adjectives, each thrust and each moan its own explosive event, and he barely catches his breath between- eventually he stops trying. Mark's mouth never leaves his neck, just trails along it, lips and teeth and tongues, and he assumes that he's trying to stifle- without success- the pathetic whines that stream from his lips filthy and beautiful.

_Beautiful. _Now that he's thought it he can't seem to stop and nothing matters so much when he's ramming his hips upwards, Mark meeting halfway, hissing and growling right back at him, "Fuck. Mark. Yes." And "Tight, fuck, so _tight."_

At some point he remembers to make it good for him, but he doesn't know how he does. His calloused hand wraps itself around Mark's cock belatedly, thumb sweeping over the stickiness beading at the head, spreading it down over the length as he fists it in time with each thrust as best he can. He can already feel his orgasm building, and either he's coming embarrassingly fast or they're both too intoxicated on each other to care if they're sloppy.

Mark is _his_. He opens his eyes- fuck, when did he even close them? He must really be out of it- and groans helplessly as he catches the shimmer of glitter on Mark's face, his head tipping back at last, mouth opening in an 'O' that can only mean one thing.

"Roger!"

Between the sob and the hot liquid feeling of his cum coating his wrist, Roger's done for. He screams as he comes, glad that his throat is already raw anyways, hoarse and yeah, he's desperate and he doesn't even care anymore. As the pleasure reaches an unbearable crescendo, his cock aching, his nails digging half-moons into the kid's hips, he drives him into the wall and misses his wince as he comes.

They tumble to the floor, not unexpectedly, in a tangle of sweaty limbs and exhausted groans and Roger grunts as Mark lands squarely on his chest, knocking the breath out of him. Somehow, though, their lips find each other's and he can't find the strength to protest.

Once the sex is over, it's usually time for Roger to pass out or pull his pants up and scram. But, he reasons, how is he supposed to escape when he's dizzy and blissed out and Mark is so very insistent, pulling his hair and whimpering into his mouth. Opening his mouth, he groans and sucks on the smaller boy's tongue, one tattooed arm snaking around his waist to pull him closer, chests pressed flush together.

"Iloveyou," Mark mumbles fervently into his mouth, and all at once it breaks through again- Roger laughs hysterically, pulling away, unable to hold it together anymore. Mark might as well know he's high, he's already fucked him.

"Jesus Christ," he chuckles, pressing a palm to his face and trying in vain to make the room stop spinning. Mark peeks at him, meekly frowning, glitter and sweat and those blue blue eyes beneath those white white eyelashes and God, Roger wants to kiss him again.

"What?" he mumbles, slightly hurt and shrinking away, but Roger crushes him back to his chest in an awkwardly possessive way that he'll curse himself for, later. He shakes his head in utter amusement.

"You're such a virgin," he laughs, obnoxious and ruffling his matted hair. Mark smiles sheepishly, licking those shimmery lips.

"I… mighta lied…" He looks away as he admits it, but once again Roger forces him to look at him, pulling him into a sloppy kiss. It doesn't matter that he's strung out on H and their teeth clack, because Mark doesn't seem to mind and he probably doesn't even know the difference.

Somehow he ends up flat on his back with Mark straddling his waist, tongue delving into his mouth and again, he's not complaining. When the scrawny boy atop him pulls back to take a ragged breath, he reaches up to wipe his eyes and his fingers pull away covered in sparkles, throwing rainbow in the low light.

Mark is staring at him. "Um-" He nervously smiles, confused. "What are you doing?" Not why are you ruining my makeup, not where is this going, not what's wrong with you. Roger likes this kid already.

He decides then that he's keeping him, whether or whether not that seems like a good idea in the morning.

Giving him a mischievous look, unaware of just how bloodshot his eyes are, he deliberately smears the glitter under his own eyes and pokes his tongue out. "Lookit, I'm a fairy."

It was probably offensive. It was probably stupid, because most of what he says in a post-coital high is stupider than stupid when he finally snaps out of it, that period between his hangover and his withdrawal panic when everything is just so damn funny as long as he can remember it. But to his astonishment, Mark giggles.

It's the most beautiful sound in the world.

Roger feels himself smiling far before it registers why he is, and he joins in the laughter with a drug-born reckless abandon that for months Mark will be blissfully unaware of. He reaches up again, stroking his hand through Mark's hair, ridiculously pleased when the smaller boy nuzzles into his hand like some attention-starved puppy.

Yeah. He'll have to keep him.

"D'you need a place to stay?" he finds himself asking when the irrational laughter subsides, the joke already forgotten. Mark's eyes widen comically, nodding frantically, his grip on Roger's shoulders tightening perceptibly.

"Oh, God. Yes. I swear, I'll just stay the night- you're the best-" he babbles, painfully awkward. Roger rolls his eyes.

"Shut up," he advises, and Mark does so quickly and obediently and Roger knows he's made the right choice.

It will be months, years before he realizes that he's made a mistake and by then it's too late. By then, the glitter-sprinkled image of Mark Cohen, pale and naked and gorgeous against a wall as he screams his name is already imprinted so deeply into his brain that it's like it's always been there. By then he knows a thousand things, like the fact that Mark had been practically blind the night he'd fucked him, his glasses back in his shitty hotel room, or that he'd stolen that particular pair of jeans on a dare, and it's nothing special or it wouldn't be if it wasn't Mark.

With Mark, everything is special, even orange hair and pink water like a gory bathtub sunrise and a bloody message on the bathroom mirror. Even withdrawal, every excruciating moment, every plea gone unnoticed, every bruise he hadn't meant to inflict. Mark becomes a weathered, grimacing member of bohemian society at the hands of his best friend, whom he holds apart at the seams again and again until Roger is certain that they've been sewn together.

They're Mark's memories, and as awful as it is, he can't bear to forget.

But in the end it doesn't matter, because to him Mark will always be a young boy far from home, a virgin in a club who told him he loved him before he'd known better. An angel sent down to save him from himself.

It will be years before he knows it, but for now, cherry-flavored lips pressed to his in a gentler kiss than he's had since he was fourteen and still innocent, Roger can be happy with what he has.


End file.
